


C. Drawlight's Time in Faerie, Etc.

by Miracule



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Faerie is a little scary isn't it, Gen, M/M, a concerned magician, a murderous old friend, alcohol ment., book!drawlight angst, i will add character tags as they come in!, some mentions of anxiety (including feelings of unreality)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:46:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4607274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-novel.  In an odd place called Faerie, Christopher Drawlight discovers some old acquaintances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I just love book Drawlight so much. :' )

Christopher Drawlight chewed thoughtfully on a bit of dried licorice. He’d been surprized to find a vendor of sweets along the road, especially considering how strangely empty these woods usually were. Apart from a few stone cottages and dilapidated farmhouses, there were no inhabitable—and certainly no _welcoming_ residences for miles. Drawlight always gave these structures a wide berth, as he had no idea what sort of unfashionable, unfriendly people lurked within them.

Most days, Drawlight made do with his own company, although occasionally he would come across a mossy boulder or a handsome tree that seemed eager to make his acquaintance. Then, he would pause to chat about the sun, the unseasonably pleasant weather, or some other benign topic. Previously, he had attempted to ask about current affairs in London, or where he might find a haberdasher, but he never received any comprehensible response to those questions. Thoroughly discouraged, he had since given up. There wasn’t a tree in these woods that knew anything about London—or any other city in England, for that matter.

And so, on this particular afternoon, he was quite startled to come across a young fellow pushing a cart full of odd delicacies—many of which he had never seen in his life. The boy had a funny countenance, with wide-set eyes and small, sharp-looking teeth. But he smiled broadly as Drawlight approached, and gestured to the goods in his cart.

“Good morning,” he said, in a sweet, melodious voice.

“Morning?” Drawlight glanced toward the tree-tops, where golden midday light poured through the leaves. He frowned a little, but did not argue—he would not dare be rude to the only living creature he’d met today.

 A basket of little blue pearls caught his attention. “What are those, boy?” he asked, imagining that perhaps they tasted like wild berries, or fresh rain. _That would be nice_ , he thought. He needed a bit of rain.

 “Mm, not for you, sir,” the boy replied, smiling kindly. “They are not suitable for men.”

 “For ladies, then?”

 “No, sir, they are not for your _kind_.”

 His _kind_? Drawlight bristled, until he noticed the licorice root. Suddenly, a disturbing thought came to him. Was his breath _stale_? He had not thought about the condition of his teeth in, well, a good while. He breathed into his palm, as the boy happily watched. Drawlight smelled nothing—except, perhaps, for the faint, sweet scent of sap.

 “How much for a stick of licorice?” he asked, pointing with his middle finger. He had no English money, but he always made sure to carry bits of ceramic and ancient, chipped coins that he found along the road.

 “For you, sir?” The boy looked thoughtful. “A bit of your blood should suffice.”

 Startled, Drawlight took a step backward and drew his hand toward his chest. “Blood?” he exclaimed. _How barbaric this place is!_

 The boy seemed taken back. “Fear not, sir! Forgive me—I forgot that you are not native to our land. It would only be a prick on your little finger.”

 “I quite like my little finger,” Drawlight told him, drily. “Only a drop, you say?”

 The boy nodded, and before Drawlight could offer a reply, he felt a sharp pain in the soft flesh of his finger, and saw that his skin had split open on its own. Only, the stuff that rose to the surface was not red, as Drawlight had expected, but white—and shockingly translucent. Indeed, it was not blood at all, and Drawlight fearfully placed a hand against his chest, as if to make sure that his heart was still in working order.

 It was not, although Drawlight was able to assure himself that his lack of a heartbeat was merely due to his inability to locate it.

 The boy took Drawlight’s small hand in his own and put his lips against Drawlight’s little finger. _What an audacious thing to do!_ Drawlight was so horrified that he hardly reacted. _The people in this place have no manners at all_ , he thought. Drawlight then had the sneaking suspicion that the boy was trying to flirt with him, although this was unceremoniously dispelled when the boy wrinkled his pointy little nose.

 “I’ll be on my way, now, sir,” he said, passing Drawlight a few sticks of the root.

 “Wait!” As the boy began to push the cart away, Drawlight couldn’t help spinning around to stop him. “Wait.”   He pointed anxiously in the direction from which the boy had come. Up ahead, the road branched into two, and both paths looked eerily identical. In Drawlight’s experience here, the appearance of identical paths meant useless guesswork, followed by a walk in a giant, undignified circle until one finally returned to the original fork.

 “Where did you come from, and what lies beyond?”

 The boy pointed to the left. “There,” he said. He began to push onward.

 “And what lies beyond?” Drawlight asked pleasantly, although he was beginning to lose his patience.

 “Why, the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart,” was the only reply that he received.


	2. H. Lascelles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh i live on reviews, even negative ones. drag me in the comments

Drawlight had been walking for a mile or so when he spotted a large, black pond off the side of the road. It was nestled in a grove of pretty birch trees, which swayed in the wind and waved gently at him. Drawlight peered at the water and thought about taking a drink. He decided that no, he wasn’t thirsty. But the surface of the water so deep and dark that he figured it might be useful as a mirror.

 Drawlight let out a little moan at his reflection. It wasn’t how he expected to look. His eyes were dull and his lips were so terribly pale. He would have given all of the trinkets he owned in exchange for a bit of blush for his cheeks. And his _hair_! His beloved hair, which was normally so fine and soft, was matted. He smoothed a few loose strands around his face and sighed wearily.

 He couldn’t even wash his clothes! He had been wearing them since his dear friend Henry Lascelles had attempted to murder him, but he had no spare shirt to change into—nor did he have a blanket to sit upon while waiting for clothes to dry. No, this terrible outfit would have to do. Luckily, he didn’t seem to sweat nearly as much as he was used to. In fact, he didn’t seem to sweat at all.

 Finally, he washed his hands in the water, wet and combed his hair, and then carried on.

 Soon after, he realized that the road under his feet looked very strange. It was paved—but not with plain stones. Opals, rubies, and other such gems glittered between flat black bricks. Drawlight tapped carefully on a ruby with the toe of his shoe, and he could have sworn that it sank deeper into the ground as he did. Up ahead, the road resembled a line of stars in the sky.

 Drawlight figured that this road must belong to the owner of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart. _He must be a wealthy man_ , Drawlight thought. A little rush of excitement made his hands tremble. With the proper amount of flattery, a rich man could provide food—although Drawlight wasn’t very hungry—and a bed that wasn’t made of weeds and earth! Drawlight dared to imagine new, finely tailored clothes, and for a moment, he was nearly beside himself with emotion.  

 He did retain _some_ caution, however. He recalled the debtors’ prison very, very clearly, and he swore to himself that he would not fall into the same lifestyle that had obliterated his reputation back in London. He still felt a chill run down his spine whenever he thought of Mr. Norrell and Jonathan Strange, and how they despised him so.

 He stayed by the side of the road for a little while, feeling terribly sorry for himself, until he felt a little hand land on his back. He started and turned around, only to find that it was not a hand at all—only the overhanging bough of a weeping willow.

 

  

Eventually, Drawlight came to a small town of sorts. At least, he thought that it was a town. There were odd-looking buildings lined up against the street, and even some lonely figures meandering around in front of them.

 As Drawlight passed, one of them—a handsome woman with skin as dark as coal—smiled wanly at him. Drawlight quickly reached up to tip his hat, only to remember that he didn’t have one.   The woman, who appeared to be around Drawlight’s age, seemed to consider something. She looked closely at him and asked, “Where are you going, traveler?”

 Despite her good looks, her voice reminded Drawlight of the wind howling across a moor.

 “I’m searching for the Castle...Er, of the Plucked Eye and Heart,” he added, wondering if there might be more than one castle nearby.

 “Ah,” she sneered a little, “I could not, in good conscience, suggest that you go there. That is Lady Marrowbone’s place. She does not particularly enjoy the company of outsiders. There is a poor soul stationed there, on the grounds. If you mean to do her harm, he will challenge you and string you up by your ankles. Those who venture there are _always_ tricked into a duel with this champion. It is her wish.”  

 “And she is called Marrowbone?” _What a dreadful name!_ _She sounds positively dreadful altogether._ But perhaps he would attempt to make her acquaintance regardless. After all, he had very little to lose, and much to gain.

 “Marrowbone, yes.”

 “Ah, well, I see...Forgive me, Madam, but do you know of anywhere I might buy a new coat?” Drawlight wondered if she noticed the bits of old blood that stained his cuff.

 She shrugged her broad shoulders. “There is a shop in Cornflower Square, which is down the road from here.”  

 “I...thank you,” Drawlight murmured, earnestly. “Only, I have very little coin.”

 “Very well, traveler,” she said. “There are other ways to pay here.”

 

 

The Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart was every bit as dismal as the woman had implied that it would be. Drawlight had been excited at the prospect of arriving with a new coat that shimmered like starlight, but now he did not think that he should even go near the place. Bodies swung from the branches of old, dead thorn trees, and rusting coats of armor littered the earth. Drawlight bit down on his lip as picked his way around them.

 In the distance, a tower loomed in the gathering darkness. There weren’t any lights in the windows, except for one, in which there seemed to stand a lonesome figure. Drawlight thought that it might be a lady, although he admitted to himself that he wouldn’t put money on it.

 But then he noticed another figure, very much nearer to him than the lady in the window. This one was a man—tall, slim, with sandy-colored hair. He wore quite a fashionable coat, which Drawlight immediately recognized as belonging to Henry Lascelles. A terrible feeling came over him—something akin to being thrown into an icy river in the dead of winter. He tried to move, but he could not. In his fear, he was frozen to the spot.

 But this was _Lascelles_ —his old, bosom companion. Surely, if he were trapped in this strange land as well, he might be glad to see Drawlight. Surely, his murderous inclinations would have lessened since Drawlight met him in the woods! Surely.

 Drawlight was just considering his escape when Lascelles seemed to turn on a pivot, like a mechanical dog sniffing out its prey. “Who’s there?” he called. Drawlight could hear the characteristic sneer in his voice. “I am the Champion of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart!”

 There was no running now.

 “Henry?” he called out, in the most level tone he could muster. “Good God, is that really you, dear fellow?”

 Lascelles stopped to incline his head toward the sound of Drawlight’s voice. “Who is that? Have you come to harm my lady? If you mean her harm, I shall kill you!” Suddenly, he sounded very unsure of himself.

 “I would never do such a terrible thing!” Drawlight insisted, wringing his hands together. “I swear that I will not harm your...your lady.”

 Lascelles crept closer, and Drawlight hardly dared to breathe. However, the closer he came, the more confused he seemed to become.

 Lascelles’ shrill voice shattered the silence. “Show yourself! I am the Champion of the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart!”

 Drawlight winced. Perhaps this was some sort of enchantment? If only Strange were here to tell him. “The champion? And how bothersome that must be. I am right here,” he said, with a trembling voice. “Can you not see me in this coat?”  

 Lascelles was practically upon him, and still he seemed to gaze straight over Drawlight’s head. Up close, Drawlight noticed how pallid and drawn his handsome friend had become.

 “My dear Henry, this place has not been kind to you!”

 With that, Lascelles leapt back in fright. His eyes, half-wild, finally found their mark. “Drawlight?” he gasped. His mouth twisted into a manic grin. “I mistook your for a ash tree, man! You are here to torment me, I trust?”

 “I—no, I—”

 “I shot you,” he continued, slipping easily into a mask of indifference. “Perhaps I shall do so again. No,” he seemed to think aloud, “Perhaps not again. I have had no one to speak to in years.”

 “Years, Henry? Nay, not years.” Drawlight smoothed down his shirt, held his chin higher. “Weeks, perhaps, but years...?”

 “It feels like years,” said Lascelles, curiously touching the collar of Drawlight’s new coat. “I must admit, you seem different,” he muttered. “Yes, very different. I can tell that you are a spirit.”

 “A spirit?” Drawlight echoed, frowning. “I do not think so, dearest.”

 “But you must be!” Lascelles cried, “I shot you dead!”

 For the first time in a very long time, Drawlight felt that he was in control. He stood a little taller and smiled very sweetly. “Oh, Henry, how absurd! I am here, alive. You shot me, but you did not shoot me dead. Now come,” he said, growing bolder. “How do you like my new coat?”  


	3. Lascelles and His Lady

Drawlight smiled broadly as he hooked an arm around his friend’s elbow. To his bemusement, he felt Lascelles flinch, as if he expected Drawlight to do something terrible to him. He noticed that Lascelles’ fingers tightened around the grip of a pistol at his belt.

Surprizingly, Drawlight hadn’t noticed it before, as the weapon was well-hidden in the folds of Lascelles’ coat. The belt wasn’t something that Lascelles would usually wear, either; in fact, Drawlight was certain that he had never seen anything like it before in his life. It seemed to be made out of pure darkness. It sucked up all of the ambient light so that there was no glimmer of metal or thread to be noticed. Curious, Drawlight touched it with the tip of his finger, which caused Lascelles to inhale sharply.

“What is this thing, Henry?” Drawlight asked. “I don’t recognize the material.”  

“No, I should think not,” Lascelles explained, with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “My lady gifted it to me. She said that it belonged to a previous Champion, and I felt that there was no way I could refuse...”

“Ah, ah.” Drawlight shrugged a little and found that he did not care.  

“...It is made out of their souls, you see...”

“Ah,” Drawlight sighed again.                                                 

“And what of this coat?” asked Lascelles, with a little condescending sneer playing on his lips. “How did you afford _that_?” 

Drawlight frowned. “Oh, this? It cost me a bit of blood,” he said, as if that were a perfectly acceptable form of payment.  

Lascelles’ nose wrinkled in disgust. “How ghastly.”

“Indeed.” Drawlight glanced toward the tower and saw that the shadow remained in the topmost window. Lascelles followed his gaze and sighed, as if nothing in the world caused him more sorrow than that lonesome figure.

“She must be very lovely for you to defend her so,” Drawlight prompted. He was curious as to what sort of lady could turn Henry Lascelles into a proper little soldier. In his experience, such a woman did not exist, as Lascelles harbored no real love for the fairer sex. Then again, he did not harbor any real love for men, or animals, or anything at all, Drawlight suspected.

“I do not know!” exclaimed Lascelles. “I remember her voice, and I remember that I saw her, but I cannot recall her face. I wonder if she is horribly disfigured. That would explain it.”

Drawlight nodded absently. He noticed that the longer he had Lascelles in his grip, the sadder he became. It was curious. Although he didn’t like to admit it, he had missed the company of his haughty, handsome companion. Nobody else had been so kind to young, adolescent Drawlight—although that happy period in their lives had long since passed. Of course, Drawlight had not forgiven Lascelles for all of the very bad things that he had done, but it was becoming clear to him that they both looked better together. Despite their obvious differences, they were complementary—like a pair of well-worn shoes. One is worthless without the other.  

Lascelles thought similarly, apparently. He looked down at Drawlight with a thoughtful, faraway expression and said, “You know, I have missed your company. I was wrong to—” he faltered a bit, “Kill you. Very wrong.”  

 _There he goes again, with his silly talk of death._ _How confused he is!_ Drawlight patted his arm. “Oh, that’s kind of you to say. I was just thinking—you should come with me. Leave this place; it’s _so_ miserable. I don’t think she will mind,” he added, nodding toward the tower. “She will find somebody else to be her Champion. I think that I can forgive you. At least, we will be better off if we go together.”  

Lascelles shook his head. “Oh, I’m afraid that I’ve already tried. I cannot make my feet carry me down that road. It’s as if they have a mind of their own.”

 Drawlight thought back to the dark woman he’d met in that sparkling little town.   “Somebody _did_ tell me that Lady Marrowbone—Is that really her true name?—is quite a disagreeable woman. It must be some magic that she’s done to you.”

“Magic?” Lascelles nearly spat the word out. “I’m finished with the stuff. I do wonder if Norrell has gotten along without me. I hope that he has. What shall I do if I return and find that your Jonathan Strange lords over all of English magic? I will be ruined. Perhaps I am already.”

The mere mention of the mad magician set Drawlight’s teeth on edge. He still did not quite understand what had transpired between the two of them in Venice, in the midst of that pillar of Night. He wondered if Strange would find it fit to punish Drawlight for failing to deliver those ominous messages. _No_ , he thought, looking pointedly at Lascelles. Strange would surely recognize that his failure wasn’t his fault at all.

“Speaking of Norrell, come and look at this. I have news,” said Lascelles, in a tone that was usually reserved for performing a trick at a dinner party. He led Drawlight around a few rotted carcasses and through a particularly dense grove of thorn trees. The sky overhead was growing increasingly dark, although the light from Drawlight’s coat was bright enough to dispel the worst of it. It did not, however, do much good against the lengthening shadows that crept along behind them.

Lascelles halted suddenly and pointed toward a lumpy spot of earth. As Drawlight drew closer, however, he realized that it was not earth, but a man. He was young, perhaps twenty years of age, and was dressed like a poor country farmer.

“I killed him,” Lascelles admitted, with a disconcerting airiness to his voice.

Drawlight leaned over the boy. He found that he had suddenly forgotten how to breathe properly. “Why would you do such a thing?” he muttered. “Look at how handsome he was.”

“It just happened,” Lascelles insisted, as if he needed Drawlight to understand that these things were out of his control; they just _happened_ , as rainstorms happen.

“He said that he was lost, but I did not believe him. I had to challenge him. It just... happened.”

Drawlight unhooked his arm from Lascelles’ and shook his head. He felt queasy.  “This is really...terrible, Henry.”

“I did not want to kill him,” Lascelles said, and Drawlight believed him. But what frightened him was that Lascelles did not seem to _mind_ that he had killed the boy. In fact, he seemed a little curious, and not at all repentant.  

“But listen,” Lascelles continued, grabbing Drawlight by his shoulder. “I could hear that the boy’s speech was Northern, so I asked him where he was from. He said that he came from _Yorkshire_.”

“So? Many men come from Yorkshire.”

“Look here. After I met you in the woods that day, I returned to Norrell. We tried to keep Jonathan Strange from entering Hurtfew.”

Drawlight did not understand why, although he nodded as if he did.

“We failed, regardless. He came and he turned everything in the house around—all of the hallways, everything. We could not get to Norrell, so the servants and I left to find help. As this man lay dying, I asked him about Norrell, and if he knew what had transpired at Hurtfew Abbey after we left. He did not know, but...he told me that Hurtfew no longer stands. It is _gone_.”

“Gone? What do you mean?” Drawlight shifted anxiously on his feet.

“Vanished. They cannot find Norrell anywhere. I tried to ask the boy about Strange, but he...he could not say anything more.”

“He said all of this to you as he died?” Drawlight asked, incredulous.

Lascelles grimaced. “It wasn’t a clean shot. He died rather slowly. But you know nothing?”

“About what?”

“About Norrell! Have you spoken to anybody who knows? Any fairies? My god, this is my reputation. It lies with Norrell, wherever he is. It is no good for my nerves, Drawlight.”

Hearing his name spoken, Drawlight drew his gaze from the body of the dead boy.

“Henry,” he began. He intended to leave this place as soon as possible, preferably _with_ Lascelles. Of course, they would eventually need to have a discussion concerning Lascelles’ propensity to murder; that was certain. Only, before he had the chance to make this desire known, a thin hand reached out from the shadows and took him by the sleeve. He let out a little cry of fear and backed up into Lascelles, who was breathing hard.

Beside them stood a girl who couldn’t have been a year over fourteen or fifteen. She wore a dress that seemed to be cut from the same material as Lascelles’ belt, and Drawlight thought that she might have been made out of the darkness herself. The girl regarded Drawlight coolly through eyes that resembled pools of pitch. “You are not welcome here, traveler,” she said.

She certainly did not sound like a young girl, although Drawlight could not quite understand why her voice unsettled him so. It reminded him of when someone speaks in a crowded room, and their voice is lost in the midst of fifty others. That is what she sounded like; a voice that he couldn’t be entirely sure that he heard.

Lascelles elbowed him in the ribs, and Drawlight wondered if this was Lady Marrowbone. She continued, “The spell I have placed on your friend here is useless when you are near him. I wonder why.” She took his hand, pursed her lips. Her fingers were as cold as ice, and Drawlight shivered a little. She drew a little circle on his palm.

“Ah,” she sighed, gazing at him with her black eyes. “I see now. You are not quite as human as you appear. You have the trees in you, sir. And the stones, and the wind.”

“I’m afraid I...I have no idea...” Drawlight stammered.  

“I only wish I knew how you came to walk among us,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard. “It is peculiar. I have not seen it done.”

Drawlight could still hear Lascelles breathing behind him. “What can I give you that will buy his freedom?” Drawlight asked, in the boldest voice he could muster. The girl wasn’t pleased by this line of questioning.

“Nothing,” she replied, curtly. “It cannot be done.”

“There must be something...” Drawlight felt as if his insides were tying themselves in knots.

“There is not. I am sorry,” she finished, and for a moment, Drawlight thought that she might have meant it. She then muttered a few words under her breath that Drawlight did not understand.

At that moment, Lascelles—overcome by a terrible feeling of isolation—reached for Drawlight’s free hand. Only, there was no hand to reach for—Lascelles was entirely alone. He looked about, frowning. He thought that he had heard voices, although he could not recall what they had said. He could not recall much of anything, but he did feel as though he had suffered quite a loss. Something was missing. _No matter_ , he supposed. _It is gone, then. In a moment, I will not miss it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor drawlight can't get a break. : ( thanks for sticking with me this far, folks!


	4. Jonathan Strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, bertie carvel is my jonathan strange. he just is. since i saw the show first, i simply couldn't get him out of my head. so, while this is certainly book!drawlight, i'm afraid that strange is a bit of a conglomeration of the two. so, his hair isn't red. sorry.

_There was a river running through him. No, not through him—around him. There was a river around him. Its icy, black water rushed past his ears and through his legs and under his feet. And then it carried him. It took him past the Castle of the Plucked Eye and Heart, which quickly shrank away into the Night. Drawlight attempted to cry out, but his mouth immediately filled with brackish water. Not again! Not this again! He remembered being similarly swept away by a Venetian canal at Strange’s behest._

_If there was one thing that Drawlight_ detested _, it was having magic done against him. This was surely that girl’s—or Lady Marrowbone’s—doing. Luckily, this time Drawlight seemed to have no trouble holding his breath for as long as the river saw fit to carry him. He merely watched as little schools of white, shimmering fish appeared in his line of vision and then vanished as soon as they had come._

_He traveled for hours—or days. He couldn’t tell which._

Eventually, the river deposited him into a clearing near a grove of tall, handsome ash trees. Drawlight watched as the water receded back across the rocky ground and then dissipated into the surrounding darkness. Here, at least, the sky was clear and full of stars, and there were no threatening-looking thorn trees or ancient towers in sight. Of course, that also meant that Lascelles was nowhere to be found.

Drawlight picked himself up, peeled off his coat, and took a breath that—to his surprize—exited his lungs as a sob.  

Drawlight wept bitterly for a few long minutes, breaking the still silence of the clearing with his sniffles and stifled moans. He longed for nothing more than to leave this strange, unfriendly land behind and return to his rooms in London. But London was far, far away—that much he knew. To make matters worse, he had no idea how far Marrowbone’s river had carried him from Lascelles. For all he knew, he could have been swept across the length of an entire ocean.

He reached for his coat—which, thankfully, still glimmered brightly—and felt inside of its pockets. The licorice was soft and wet, but he still had some bits of ceramic and a few coins to his name. He unbuttoned his shirt and struggled out of it, laying it across a rock to dry. His shoes were all but ruined, however, and the very thought nearly had him weeping again. But before Drawlight could shed a single tear, he heard the snap of wood under weight and the rustle of leaves that generally suggested the presence of a large animal.  

He spun toward the sound, petrified. Standing before him, half hidden in the shadows, was none other than Jonathan Strange.

They both looked at each other in stunned silence. Drawlight couldn’t help but think that Strange was perhaps the last man on earth that he wanted to see—and _here_ of all places! It was as if Lady Marrowbone had specified to the river that it should take him to somebody who caused him a considerable amount of anxiety. Perhaps this was an apparition meant to torment him. Drawlight couldn’t decide which was worse.

Strange—or the thing that _looked_ like the magician—took a cautious step forward. “Drawlight?” he asked, in a quiet voice. As he came closer, Drawlight could see that he was quite changed. He no longer looked unhinged and unwashed, as he had in Venice. His dark curls were long but they no longer fell into his eyes, and as far as Drawlight could tell, he wore newer, cleaner clothes. His expression, Drawlight noticed, was one of great bewilderment, and it looked quite authentic.

“Mr. Strange,” Drawlight heard himself speak in a level tone. “What a... _surprize_ , sir.  I trust you are feeling well? You look very well indeed. Less...mad, I suppose.”

At that, Strange’s face relaxed into its usual, ironical expression, and Drawlight’s fears were very much alleviated. Surely no other living creature could mimic that soft, distinctive smirk.

“It would appear, on the other hand, that _you_ are very much the same!” Strange said, although not unkindly. “Only, I did not expect to find you here, of all people, considering what Norrell has said about you...” He trailed off, and the wry smile vanished entirely from his countenance. Drawlight noticed that Strange suddenly looked rather uncomfortable.  

“What do you mean?” he pressed, although he continued to keep his distance from the magician. He recalled that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, which made him more than a little embarrassed. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, but Strange didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Never mind, never mind,” said the magician. He beckoned Drawlight forward with a flick of his wrist. “Come, I wish to see you! It is so dreadfully dark, I apologize for that...I should have brought a lamp.”

“A lamp?” Drawlight looked around. _From where?_

“Yes, a lamp!” Strange said, as if it were obvious that there were countless lamps somewhere nearby. “But I only came because I felt that there was powerful magic being done. I was in a bit of a hurry, you see.”

Drawlight moved a little closer and Strange took him eagerly by the shoulders. “Now, you are not a fairy, are you?” he asked, frowning a little. He took one of Drawlight’s hands in his own and squeezed it for a moment. “Ah,” he murmured to himself, as if he had made some interesting observation that he wished to keep secret.

“What is it?” Drawlight was growingly increasingly anxious. He stood on his toes a little to minimize the distance between them.  

Strange met Drawlight’s pointed gaze—a little hesitantly, however—and then smiled apologetically. Some curious emotion flickered behind his eyes. “I am sorry; you must be cold. But how _exactly_ did you come here?”

Drawlight winced. “A woman. She cursed me; I’m sure of it. She sent a river to carry me here.”

Strange arched a dark eyebrow. He seemed incredulous, which annoyed Drawlight, since he was—for once—telling the entire truth as he had lived it. “So, did you know that we are camped here? Did she send you to us on purpose?” asked Strange. He bit thoughtfully at his lower lip.  

“We?” echoed Drawlight, shaking his head. “You came to me alone, sir.”

Strange blinked and then let out a sharp little laugh. “Oh, of course. I forgot—you cannot see it. Close your eyes,” he commanded. Drawlight begrudgingly obeyed, but he only did so in order to placate the magician. He would not risk making an enemy of the man out here. Drawlight heard Strange mutter a few words under his breath, and then out of nowhere Strange’s fingertips came to rest on Drawlight’s eyelids. It was a gentle touch, but it still made Drawlight start in surprize.

He pulled his face away and began to rub at his eyes, as if he meant to remove any essence of magic that might have been left there.   But Strange held Drawlight’s wrist with his long, cool fingers and said sternly, “Don’t. Merely open your eyes.”

Drawlight did. In front of him, just beyond the ash trees, loomed a tall, grey building. But it was not just any building, no—Drawlight recognized it immediately as Hurtfew Abbey.  

“Norrell has enchanted it,” Strange explained, releasing his grip. His voice was surprizingly gentle when he spoke the other magician’s name. “It is rather a clever spell, actually, adapted from Martin Pale’s—” Strange saw the look on Drawlight’s face and fell silent.  

Drawlight was staring up at Hurtfew as if he had just arrived at the gates to his own personal hell. If he were a religious man, he might have believed that he _was_ in Hell after all. He wondered if Marrowbone’s curse had actually been designed to drop him into the place where he would least like to be.

“Norrell is in there?” he swallowed.

Strange nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said, smiling wanly. “We spend a great deal of time in each other’s company these days.”  He placed a gentle hand at the small of Drawlight’s back, and for a moment, Drawlight felt a little safer.

“Come,” he continued, “Grab your clothes. Let us get you something hot to drink.”


	5. Strange and Norrell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, so i added a few notes to the body of this chapter. i had a few ideas that i didn't want to go to waste.

“It is perpetually nighttime in these woods,” Strange told him, rather conversationally. “Well, it doesn’t make much of a difference to me or Norrell, but I think I should warn you: the sun will not rise tomorrow!” He laughed, and the sound was both comforting and disconcerting at once. Drawlight had heard Strange’s singular, boyish cackle many times before, although not since the magician had so nastily threatened to turn him into a Leucrocuta (a Wolf of the Evening, whatever that meant).

Drawlight allowed himself to be led toward Hurtfew, but he halted once he reached the short flight of stone steps that marked its true beginning. They rose quietly out of ground, seemingly at home among the wild grasses and bluebells. Drawlight had climbed these stairs before, but never had they looked so wild. Strange paused beside him and waited a moment before clearing his throat.

“If you would, Mr. Drawlight. It really is quite all right.”

“I still cannot believe that you are truly...you,” Drawlight admitted, and it was the truth. At first, Strange was a little taken back, but then his expression softened.

“I do understand. In fact, I share your apprehension,” he said, looking Drawlight up and down. But then he made a noise of dismissal and shrugged one of his shoulders as if to suggest that—at the end of the day—it did not make a difference to him. “You see, Drawlight, this is the first time in _months_ that I have seen another living soul—apart from Norrell, of course.”

Drawlight frowned. _Months?_ “What of Childermass, then? Your servants?”

Strange mouthed, “Oh,” and Drawlight could see that he had hit upon some uncomfortable topic. “They are all gone,” Strange explained, haltingly. “When I said that I have been alone with Norrell, I meant just that, sir.”

Drawlight grimaced. “I could not bear such a fate,” he muttered. “It is a terrible thought.”

“Indeed,” Strange replied, and although he had already begun to walk, Drawlight could practically hear the smile playing on his lips. From then on, both men began to feel a little more comfortable in the other’s company.

 

 

The foyer was exactly the same as Drawlight remembered.   He could still make out familiar portraits on the walls, and Norrell’s penchant for keeping things tidy and orderly was evident throughout the hall. The only thing missing was light; there were significantly fewer candles burning than there should have been, which was hardly respectable for a man as wealthy as Norrell. To make matters worse, whenever a flame flickered and altered the look of a shadow upon the wall, Drawlight imagined John Childermass materializing out of the darkness to offer him a drink.  

Strange seemed to read his mind. “Oh, I forgot! It must seem very dark to you,” he said, apologetically. “We do our best to conserve our remaining candles, especially at night.” He muttered a few words in a language that Drawlight didn’t recognize, and suddenly the hallway was illuminated with a pale, blue light—as if a little sun were beginning to rise inside of Hurtfew itself. “There,” said Strange, gesturing to the air. “Now you needn’t worry about taking a bad step on the stairs.”

“Where is Norrell?” Drawlight asked as they ascended.

Strange shrugged. “In the library, I suppose. I was perusing the cellar when I felt your magic, so I did not bother telling him where I was going.” Strange paused. “He’ll likely be cross with me for going without asking his permission.” He sighed, as he had often sighed at Hanover-square during a particularly dull lecture.

They seemed to climb forever. Drawlight was certain that Hurtfew hadn’t been _this_ tall, but he said nothing. About halfway up—or around the time Drawlight assumed that they must be halfway there—he happened to glance out of one of the small, deep-set windows that lined the stairwell. Outside, floating like a giant black cloud above the treetops, was Jonathan Strange’s Soho-square residence. Drawlight gasped out loud, which startled his companion so much that Strange spun around and cried, “What is it?”  

But Drawlight could only point, mute. Strange descended a few stairs to stand by his shoulder. “Ah. Odd, isn’t it?” said the magician, releasing the breath he’d been holding. “It seems to have followed me here. Mr. Norrell’s Hanover-square house is here as well. And Ashfair, above us.” He smiled at Drawlight’s astonished expression and pointed toward the ceiling, as if the houses were hovering directly over their heads.

“It is very troublesome, however,” Strange continued, as they climbed. “I cannot figure out how to get into it. It is not _so_ terrible—I do not have many things there that I need—but it vexes me.”

(Just the other day, he and Mr. Norrell had stood beneath the Soho-square house, peering up at it. They had tried, time and time again, to bring it down to the ground. Nothing worked, and Strange could not even get a magical staircase of boulders to stay in place. He would climb onto the first, only to have the whole thing wobble and begin to come apart. Norrell had yelled at him to come down at once, and then explained in a more reasonable tone that they might have to summon what they needed from the comfort of Hurtfew. Of course, Strange did not need much—only, he had been wondering if Arabella had left any trinkets behind.)

By the time they reached the landing that Strange appeared to be searching for, Drawlight was out of breath. He gripped the railing and straightened his shirt, which was still damp from Lady Marrowbone’s river. Before now, he would have never considered going to a man like Norrell in shirtsleeves. But Strange made no comment on his dress, so Drawlight refrained from voicing his concern. After all, the younger magician himself was only wearing a black banyan.

The library, however, was shut and bolted. “He is not there,” said Strange, without hesitation. “He locks the library when he goes to bed.” The magician turned and chewed on his lower lip.

Drawlight waited in polite silence until Strange’s eyes fell upon him once more.

“Come, I will take you to him.”

“But you said—”

“It is no matter,” Strange replied, although Drawlight wasn’t convinced. “This cannot wait.”

Drawlight sighed. He wanted to enquire about the tea that he was promised, but once again, he said nothing. Strange pushed him back toward the stairwell, but this time they only climbed to the next floor. “He likes to be close to the library,” Strange told him, without being asked.

Then, without warning, the magician strode down a hallway to their left—his black banyan billowing out behind him—and grabbed the frame of a rather plain-looking door toward the end of it.   His knocking was sharp and rhythmic, like a woodpecker’s.   Drawlight crept closer, although he didn’t particularly feel any desire to move.  

“Mr. Norrell,” said Strange, pleasantly, betraying none of his nervous energy, “Mr. Norrell, there is a matter of _some_ urgency which I must—”

Norrell’s voice, still muffled by the wood between them, interrupted him. “Mr. Strange, this is most inconvenient, sir!” Drawlight shuddered. He didn’t think he would ever have to hear that voice again.

Strange rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, I know...” His tone remained entirely pleasant.

“I have told you on countless occasions not to disturb me once I’ve gone to bed! I need my sleep, Mr. Strange! You may find it agreeable to sit up well into the night sipping your wine or your mead, but I have told you—" 

“That is unfair, sir!” cried Strange, clearly stung. Drawlight merely stood still, a few paces away, with his mouth slung open in amazement. This behavior wasn’t at all gentlemanly. “You know that I wouldn’t disturb you unless I had no other choice. I _have_ learnt my lesson!”

(On more than one occasion, Strange had stayed up drinking and working through the night. His excuse over breakfast always resembled that he had lost track of the time, since the clocks were stuck on midnight. Norrell would say that he did not mind, so long as Mr. Strange waited until the morning to present him with any new, interesting discoveries. Whenever Mr. Strange forgot—or refused—to follow this dictum, however, Mr. Norrell would cast a little spell to redirect Strange’s incessant knocks so that they fell upon the skull of the man instead.)  

Finally, the door swung open and a different, pinkish sort of light poured into the hallway and extinguished Strange’s pale blue aura. Strange took a step backward and pointed toward Drawlight, who wished that he could sink into one of those cracks in the floor. “An old friend has come to us,” said Strange. Drawlight was thrown by those words. He had never been a friend to either magician—Strange least of all.

(Drawlight still had not forgotten the look of pure, unadulterated disgust that Strange had given him after he had traveled the King’s Roads and caught Drawlight with Mrs. Bullworth. Drawlight had felt the heat of Strange’s anger so intensely that he thought it might be enough to make him burst into flames on the spot. Now, Strange calling him a _friend_ was enough to make Drawlight feel slightly unsteady on his feet.)

“My god, Mr. Strange, I hope that you have not brought some fairy creature into my—” Norrell froze when he laid eyes on Christopher Drawlight. “This is not possible.” 

“It is...it is him!”

“How can you be sure?”

“Hello, Mr. Norrell,” Drawlight exhaled, rather overcome with anxiety. He took a breath, and then another—neither of which seemed to do him any good. He breathed and breathed again as Mr. Strange and Mr. Norrell stared at him in confusion. He began to feel dizzy and somewhat faint. Finally, Strange came up to him and took him gently by the shoulders.

The younger magician’s eyes were bright as he searched Drawlight’s face. “Breathe slowly,” he said, quietly. “I know it is tempting, but the quicker you breathe, the weaker you will feel. I will summon some mulled wine for you. Does that sound pleasing? It is rather good, although there isn’t much left...”

“Mr. Strange, you must not touch it!” That was Norrell.

Strange hesitated. “Sir, you will trust me.”   He turned back toward Drawlight, who felt as if his hands were no longer bound to his wrists. But it didn’t stop there, no—he felt entirely separated from his body, as if he were trapped inside of his own mind.

“...many men in the Peninsula...” Strange was saying, “It will pass.”

Drawlight closed his eyes.   He was sure that he would die before it ‘passed.’   But it did pass. No more than fifteen minutes later, he was sitting at the top of the stairs with his face buried in his hands.   Mr. Norrell was in the middle of admonishing Mr. Strange for going out into the night without telling him, and Strange was telling Norrell, in a low voice, that he had no choice—he _had_ to go, and it was good that he did, otherwise he might have missed Drawlight entirely.    

“Pardon me, sirs,” Drawlight said at last, forcing the words from his throat.

They both fell silent.

“May I please have some tea? Or the wine that you promised, Mr. Strange? That sounds v-very well.”


	6. A familiar place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> book spoilers! so, this is where things get a little sticky. i didn't remember until halfway through this that in the book, Childermass does NOT tell Norrell that he thinks Drawlight is dead. my mistake! guess we're going w/ show canon for this one. 
> 
> also, i apologize for the long wait. i started a new internship last week! :*

Mr. Norrell appeared to be experiencing a sentiment akin to sympathy. He looked down at Drawlight and tutted quietly.

“Now, this will not do. Mr. Strange, will you please set this— _Mr. Drawlight_ up in the Holly Room? He will be quite safe there.”

But surely this meant that Norrell would enchant the Holly Room to keep him locked up. Drawlight looked toward Strange in silent panic, and was only somewhat reassured by the eloquent arch of the younger magician’s brows.

Norrell didn’t notice their little exchange. “Bring him something to drink as well, now that he’s here. After breakfast, you—” he looked pointedly at Drawlight—“will tell us how you found Hurtfew.”  

Drawlight felt no real desire to clarify that he had not, in fact, ‘found’ Hurtfew.   Rather, he had been dropped in front of it by a malicious fairy girl. 

Strange nodded. “Very well, sir. Come, Drawlight.” He sounded more than a little relieved.

Drawlight, on the other hand, was occupied with avoiding Mr. Norrell’s excessively penetrating gaze. The magician’s brow was pinched and his dark little eyes were narrowed—an expression he often displayed when something—or _someone_ —vexed him.

Amazingly, the lines around his small face softened when he realized that Drawlight could hardly stand to look at him.

“Goodnight, then, Mr. Drawlight,” said Norrell in an guarded, quiet tone.

Strange took Drawlight’s arm. “Goodnight, sir.”

Drawlight said the same, and even inclined his head toward the older magician. It was, after all, the polite thing to do.

 

 

Strange led Drawlight toward a plain, dark door. Drawlight wondered vaguely if the room had once belonged to Childermass. Its color and style seemed to suit him. “I’m afraid it isn’t anything special,” Strange warned, pulling Drawlight back into the present. The magician looked sideways at him, expecting a response.  

Drawlight immediately remembered the cold, cramped cells of the King’s Bench. “I’m sure it will do,” he replied gently.

Strange opened the door, but Drawlight remained rooted to the spot. The space beyond the threshold was pitch black. Drawlight shuddered. _It is always so terribly dark in this place! Damn the magicians and their Endless Night!_ He thought that there could be anything lurking behind that doorway: a rabid dog, a robber...a reverend! But then Strange apologized and lit a fire with a snap of his fingers, and Drawlight found that they were quite alone.

The room itself was curious. Although the décor was inexpensive and old-fashioned, there was something about it that made him feel contented. Perhaps it was that the walls were painted a soft sage green—one of Drawlight’s favorite colors. He took a cautious step inside and found that the air smelled faintly of seawater and wild rose—scents that brought with them a peculiar pang of nostalgia. He recognized this place; he had often been there before—a very long time ago. He looked accusingly at Strange, who blinked in surprize.

“Is something wrong?”

“This room is familiar to me. I mean, I’m sure that I know it.”

“Yes, so you should.” Strange poked a finger underneath his collar and cleared his throat. “The spell is one of de Marston’s. He never named it. Well, he wrote ‘For comfort’ in the margin of the page. Norrell quite enjoys it; he says that it makes him feel ‘protected.’”

Drawlight looked anxiously around the room that had once belonged to his eldest sister. He had only been seven or eight years old when she married a wealthy officer in the British Army. They had gone to live in a pretty house in London, but she died hardly a month after the wedding. Drawlight still remembered sitting on her bed, watching her comb her long black hair as the afternoon sun warmed their backs. He remembered wishing that their mother would allow him to grow his hair as long as his hers.

Strange had begun to talk to fill the silence. “...His spells are always rather unpredictable. This one doesn’t do much for me, you see. In fact, it makes me awfully forgetful. But I thought—in your condition—that it might...help. Somewhat.”

(Mr. Norrell found that de Marston’s spell had a most disagreeable effect on Mr. Strange. The first time they cast it, Strange offered to be the object of the endeavor. This was quite useless, however, as Strange neglected to actually _tell_ Mr. Norrell what was happening to him. Instead, he became very tired and announced that he would retire to his room. Of course, Norrell went looking for him and eventually found his former pupil draped over a couch in the drawing room—fast asleep.)

Drawlight sat at the edge of the mattress. Even the threadbare quilt was familiar to him. Toward the fireplace, Strange gazed at various objects with great interest. Drawlight might have considered it rude if he weren’t busy thinking about other things. Besides, he couldn’t exactly blame Strange for being curious. He hoped that nobody who knew him—well, besides Lascelles, perhaps—would have guessed that he came from poverty.

“This was a room in your house?” guessed the magician.

Drawlight looked at him. “Yes. My sister Meira’s.”

Strange’s face registered some surprise. “Ah. I see.” He turned to peruse a few books sat on the mantelpiece, as if he simply couldn’t help himself. Drawlight thought that one of them might be his sister’s old daybook, but he was too tired to bother looking. Later, maybe. He took a deep breath, and the salt in the air tickled his nostrils.

“I have some spare undergarments,” Strange offered quietly. “I’ll bring them as well. With your tea, that is.”

Drawlight nodded gratefully and began to undress. But he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open, and by the time Strange returned to the room, he was asleep.

 

   
Drawlight awoke in darkness. This time, however, he knew that it would be there.

When he finally did peel his eyes open, he saw that Strange’s fire was still burning, although it had been reduced to a low, orange glow.

Slowly, Drawlight got out of bed and looked around for his clothes. They were sitting on a chair nearby, although they looked very different from how he remembered them. For the first time in weeks, they were clean. With a small smirk, Drawlight recalled Mr. Norrell’s shrill insistence that he did not use magic to do the work of housewives. Well, clearly somebody did.      

Drawlight poured himself some of the tea that was sitting on the dresser.   It was cold, but it felt good going down his throat. He wondered why he wasn’t hungry, but he pushed that nagging thought back as he dressed.  

 

 

The smell of fresh toast and coffee led Drawlight toward the dining room. There, he found the two magicians sitting close together in conversation. Jonathan Strange leaned forward with his bony elbows resting on his knees, and Norrell’s head was inclined toward his companion’s. His expression was strained. Both men looked up at Drawlight as he cleared his throat to announce his presence.  

Strange stood. “Ah! Wonderful. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to wake you.”

Norrell, who remained seated, twisted his thin lips into a smile. “Won’t you sit here?” he asked, gesturing toward a place setting to his left. Drawlight eased into the chair with great caution. He still had the sneaking suspicion that if he were to sneeze or do anything unexpected, Norrell would be frightened enough to cast some dangerous spell against him. Perhaps Mr. Strange would be able protect him from such a fate, but Drawlight couldn’t be too careful.

“Before we came to Faerie, Childermass told me something...troubling,” began Norrell.

“Toast?” Strange’s voice floated airily across the table. Drawlight graciously accepted two slices.

Norrell sighed as if the process of breakfasting were very boring to him. For all that Drawlight knew, it was. “As I was saying,” Norrell continued, giving Strange a scolding glare, “Childermass told me something very worrisome.”

“Troubling,” said the younger magician with a wry smile.

“ _Yes_. He _told_ me that you were dead.”

There was a pregnant pause. Drawlight nibbled at the corner of a slice of toast before realizing that Norrell was waiting for him to respond.

“Well, I’m not,” he offered. “When was I supposed to have died?”

“I...well, I _suppose_ it was soon after Mr. Lascelles collected Mr. Strange’s messages from you. Childermass implied that Lascelles...may have...” Norrell trailed off.  

Drawlight simply said, “Mm.” He had not thought that he would have to endure speaking of Henry Lascelles. But Strange looked at him expectantly, so Drawlight muttered, “Yes, I can see why you would think that. He did shoot me, believe it or not. My closest friend. Imagine!”

“I am sorry,” said Strange.

“And what happened then?”

Drawlight looked at Mr. Norrell. He stayed silent—not out of spite, although Norrell might deserve it, but because he simply could not think of an answer. There was nothing he could say except, “I do not know.”

The magicians looked at one another, and then they looked at Drawlight.

Strange spoke up first. “I had an idea, you see.”

“Oh?”

“When I shewed you English magic...back in Venice. I think I...perhaps...I did more than that. You’re _different_.”

“Different?” Drawlight echoed.

"You do not...look the same,” Strange explained as a hint of wonder crept into his voice. “You are _different_.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know how else to explain it. I am not even entirely sure that you’re...” He didn’t seem to know how to continue.

“Alive,” finished Norrell.

Drawlight held his breath.

“At least, not in the same way that you were. Before.” That was Strange. “I came outside to find you because I was drawn to _you_. Your magic, that is.”

Norrell drummed his fingers against the tabletop—a sound which Drawlight found incredibly distracting. Every sound in the room was amplified, including Strange’s voice, which crashed against the walls of his skull. _This isn’t happening to me,_ Drawlight thought. But it was.


	7. His Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my gosh, it's been so long!

“I don’t understand,” Drawlight said for the hundredth time. He and Mr. Norrell were seated in the library near a small rectangular table that was covered entirely with books of all shapes and sizes. Strange was pacing the floor, looking rather frustrated as he stalked from one end of the room to the other.  Mr. Norrell offered him some milky-colored biscuits from a blue tin, which he absently refused.  

Drawlight took one simply because nibbling helped to calm his nerves.  It smelled like jasmine and almonds, and after he finished it, he felt surprizingly contented.     

“I know you do not agree, Mr. Norrell, but perhaps it _is_ the Raven King’s doing,” Strange cried suddenly, startling his two companions.

Norrell composed himself and immediately shook his head. “No, I do not think so, Mr. Strange. Why would John Uskglass trouble himself over...” He trailed off guiltily, and Strange threw up his hands with a noise of disgust.  

Drawlight lowered his head. He understood Norrell’s meaning perfectly, although he wasn’t offended in the slightest. In fact, he agreed. Why would this mysterious, rebellious Raven King bother to raise him from the dead? If _dead_ he truly was? Drawlight still thought of the Raven King’s magic as wild and rugged and Northern—all of which he was not.

Strange turned on Drawlight instead. “Well, have you tried to perform any magic? If you have been healed by it, perhaps—!”

Drawlight shrugged, and all that could be heard for a moment was the wind blowing about outside. “Well,” he began, “I don’t know any spells. I don’t know how I could be expected to try magic without them.”

Strange flew to a bookshelf.

“Ah! Mr. Strange—!” cried Mr. Norrell, in vain. “You are in such a state...You should not handle my books in such a state!”

“Oh, do not fret! These are my books!”

“No, that is my copy of Stokesey, sir.”

“So it is!” Strange put the book rather carelessly aside, which caused Norrell to wince as if he had been stung by a bee. This went on for a few minutes—Strange glancing at books, pushing them aside; Norrell protesting the whole 'hopeless' endeavor. Drawlight merely crossed his legs and looked around the library, letting the noise of the two magicians’ bickering grow distant.

The library did not look as he remembered it. The space was far more lived-in than it had been. There were signs of occupancy everywhere: one of Strange’s coats was draped across a chair, pens and bottles of ink littered every surface, and Drawlight could even spot an empty teacup sitting on Norrell’s antique writing desk. He wondered if it had something to do with the fact that John Childermass wasn’t there to order it all cleaned up. Drawlight was sure that the magicians weren't used to cleaning up after themselves.  

Did they _cook_ too? _Do country gentlemen know how to cook?_ Drawlight peered interestedly at the magicians. Perhaps they cooked by magic, or perhaps they hired a fairy maid to do it for them!  

Finally, Strange emerged from his rummaging with a small, yellowed leaf of paper in hand. He pinched it between his fingers as if it were very delicate. Norrell leaned forward to get a better look, but Drawlight pressed his weight down into his chair. If Strange noticed, he did not care. He handed the paper to Drawlight, whose lips curled as he plucked it from the magician’s fingers.  

The first thing he noticed was that the spell was dated over ten years ago. He stared down at the faded letters scrawled neatly across the top of the page. “One spell to Discover what My Enemy is Doing Presently?” he read aloud.  Beside him, Mr. Norrell started a little.

“You kept that spell, Mr. Strange?” he asked, with a hint of panic in his voice.

“Of course! That is the first spell I ever performed,” Strange muttered, scratching at the collar of his robe. “It is rather precious to me.”

“But it will not work without—”

“A mirror on the other side. I know. But I daresay we shall be able to tell if magic is being done, will we not?”

Mr. Norrell wrung his little hands and looked at Drawlight as he spoke, “I suppose so.”

“But...” Drawlight was prepared to protest. “I have no enemies. Who would be _my_ enemy?” In truth, he could think of quite a few people who could be ‘the enemy’ to whom the spell referred.

“It does not matter,” Strange assured him. His dark curls threatened to fall into his face as he shook his head. “It once shewed me Mr. Norrell here! And we were never _too_ terrible to each other.”

What followed Strange’s announcement was an uncomfortable, prolonged silence. Norrell’s mouth dropped open. “Yes,” he said finally, grinding out his words. “I was rather unkind toward you.”

“Did I not tell you of that vision?” Strange wondered. He seemed a little contrite, and suddenly very sad. “Yes, you were more than unkind. But that was a long time ago. Very long indeed.” 

“All right,” stammered Drawlight, unable to stomach the palpable melancholic fog around all of their heads. “I will try it. But it says here that I need flowers...”

“No, no longer,” said Strange. “I got rid of that part; it was tiresome. Just stand here by the mirror.”

Drawlight rose and shuffled to where Strange was pointing. He didn’t remember there being a mirror on the wall here—perhaps they had placed it there for magical purposes. He squinted at Mr. Norrell’s handwriting and then glanced helplessly at Strange. “Are you sure this is wise?”

Strange thought for a moment. “Of course,” he replied, flicking his wrist. Norrell, on the other hand, appeared to be sweating underneath his wig. He wiped at his brow and stroked his chin, all in great distress.

Drawlight drew a circle on the mirror, quartered it, and then tapped three times on its surface. He looked again at the paper and reluctantly muttered the Latin phrases that were written there. He did not speak Latin, although he was beginning to wish that he did. He wondered if the magicians were sneering at him for mispronouncing something or other.

Pushing the thought out of his head, Drawlight leaned back and studied the mirror. He took a moment to gaze at his reflection, and then wished he hadn’t. He hated the way his hair fell lankly down to his shoulders. If that weren’t enough, it started to move of its own accord—drifting about as if caught in a summer breeze.

And then everything in the mirror vanished. At first, the glass appeared pitch black, as if a hole had opened up in the wall. But then Drawlight noticed that there were clouds inching idly across the glass. Behind those, dull points of light—stars, he presumed—slowly became visible.

“Good Lord,” said Norrell.

“I knew it!” cried Strange. He lowered his voice. “Only...I hope that he will not be trapped—”

Drawlight missed whatever else Strange said. Instead, he was arrested by the figure that he saw crouching inside the mirror, looking down at him from some higher vantage point. It was dark, but Drawlight could recognize Lascelles’ angular shape—hunched or not. Mirror-Lascelles reached downward and came away with water cradled in his palm. He drank it, sputtered, drank again. Drawlight watched in abject despair.

Lascelles was his enemy. _Of course_ Lascelles was his enemy. Who else would it be? Drawlight did not even have the strength to ponder on the startling fact that he was able to perform magic at all.

When he finally turned around, Norrell and Strange were gazing at him with awe and concern, respectively.

“Lascelles is in Faerie,” said Norrell, turning to look anxiously at his former pupil. “The stars in that place suggest as much.”

“I suppose he is,” said Strange, as the crease in his brow deepened considerably.

“How can I get there?” asked Drawlight, which shocked everybody in the room, especially Drawlight himself.  

Strange’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline and the effect was almost comical. “What do you mean?”

The next words came as easily to Drawlight as if he had been waiting to speak them for his entire life. “He is enchanted. And I want to free him from it. I do care for Henry,” he explained, despite himself, “although I wish I didn’t, I do.”  

“Enchantment?” echoed Norrell.

“From the Lady of the Plucked Eye and Heart.”

Norrell looked down at his shoes; frowned at them. “I know that name. I know it.”

“How do you know he is enchanted?” Strange asked, incredulous.

“I saw him.”

“When?”

“Some time ago, before I arrived at your doorstep.”

Strange rubbed his temples. “I do not know if I can get you to him. I can move Hurtfew—and the other houses, by extension—but it will not do much good if we do not know where we are going. We know that he is in Faerie, but he could be continents away...”

“Ah...would that be wise? He is, after all, a violent man...”

“Mr. Norrell, I’m sure that between the two of us, we could keep him out of the Abbey! He need not enter this house.”

“Is there not some spell?” Drawlight offered. “There must be!”

Strange sank into a chair. “That depends on the strength of the fairy’s magic.” He looked at Drawlight with a very peculiar expression. “You _must_ free him?”

"Yes.”

“Come then. By my side. We will figure it out.”

Norrell sat back and tugged his wig from his head. “I do not like this,” he sighed. “I do not agree with this at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're almost getting there, folks.


End file.
